The Spring: Thinking Robert Frost

The spring the farmer would clear
is no longer there.
Instead, there are cars and houses.

Not a scene an artist would paint
or a parent dream:
abutting yards and fencing.

The fad these days is to be bigger,
size far past need,
displaying greed and the need
to beggar your neighbor.

And so the farmland goes.

Among the losses
are trees and springs and mosses
that once kept green
the wonder of young years.

Now streams and ponds are polluted.
Money and envy
are run amuck
with backhoes, dozers, and trucks.

It's a sea of mud
that fills fresh waters with silt.
Fish cannot swim.

Perhaps fish will grow legs and lungs
and climb again
up the bank when men are gone

and dance about on the ground,
inhabit caves
where houses once were erected
and then decayed.